English, Elizabeth (23 page)

"But
ye have to come! It's the McLarans—they were botherin' my aunt in the high
moor—"

One
man started to rise, but Alistair stilled him with a wave of his hand.
"They won't hurt her," he said, tossing the dice and smiling at the
result.

"But
Alistair—there are eight o' them at least—all drunk—and I could only find my
uncle Jemmy and Conal—"

"Och,
then, what's the trouble?" Alistair asked. "Jemmy's a braw fighter.
Sure and he can take eight McLarans by himself. Now stop worryin', it'll all
sort itself out." He reached back and took Malcolm's wrist, drawing him
forward. "Sit down and throw for me—I'll share the winnings wi' ye, lad,
and—"

He
sat up, grasping Malcolm's chin and turning the boy's face to his, staring at
the blood still dripping from his nose. "Where did ye get that?"

"One
o' the McLarans," Malcolm sniffed, wiping one hand across his face.
"I tried to stop them but—"

"They
laid hands on you?" Alistair leaped to his feet in one fluid motion.
"Come on, lads," he cried. "To me! A Kirallen!"

From
all corners of the moor the cry was answered. "A Kirallen!" a dozen
voices roared back, and a moment later they were running up the slope.

***

Alyson
watched the brawling mass of McLarans with horror, straining to find Jemmy in
their midst. Occasionally she would glimpse a bit of blue-green fabric, but
inevitably it would disappear before she could see how its owner fared. Finally
the melee parted enough for her to see Jemmy on his back, Hamish's huge form
towering over him.

Alyson
looked about frantically, and seizing a fallen branch, she delivered the
McLaran a stunning blow upon the head. He collapsed on top of Jemmy and the two
of them lay unmoving. But a moment later Jemmy crawled out from underneath the
unconscious form. He shot Alyson a grin, but had no time for more before he was
once again engulfed.

How
could he smile? Alyson wondered, holding the branch aloft but too afraid to use
it lest she wound Jemmy or poor Conal, who was being tossed about like flotsam
on the tide. A moment later she skipped back into the shelter of the trees as a
band of Kirallens, with Alistair in the lead, roared into the fray.

Just
as she thought it must surely be over any moment, the ranks were swelled again
as the Frasers joined the fight. After that there was no telling which men
fought for whom—it was all a tangled confusion of arms and legs and shouted
curses, with the occasional blood-curdling battle cry as a new clan arrived and
flung themselves into the roiling mass of bodies. She watched in horror, hands
pressed against her mouth, and gave a little scream as someone touched her
shoulder.

"Quiet,
now," Jemmy panted, putting a finger to his lips. "Let's slip away
while we can."

She
followed him silently through the trees and down another path that wound past
the waterfall outside the McLaran keep. For a moment she was afraid he meant to
stop there, but instead he took her hand and they walked together over a path
of stepping stones spanning the swift-running stream. At last they reached the
campsite, and she gave a long sigh of relief.

It
was all but deserted now, and the distant sound of fighting and the cries of
the women who had gone to watch echoed down the hillside. Jemmy stopped beside
a huge cask of honeyed ale and drew them each a mug. Alyson drained it in
thirsty gulps.

"Are
you hurt?" she asked when she was done, searching his face. His cheek was
scraped, one eyebrow split, but he shook his head and grinned. "Are you
certain?" she insisted. "Your ribs don't pain you, do they?"

"No,
no, I'm fine. But what of you?"

"I'm
well enough," she said, but as the realization of her immediate safety
reached her, she began to cry. " 'Tis only—"

"What?"
he asked gently, putting his arm around her again. "Did they frighten
you?"

"Yes—but—that
doesn't matter—" she sobbed against his shoulder. " 'Tis that—they
were—
McLarans."

"Aye,"
he said, drawing her closer. "They were. I'm sorry, Maude, this is all my
fault."

"Yours?"
she gulped, leaning into the warmth of his embrace. "Why yours?"

"I
should never have left you so much alone. But I never thought anything like that
would happen."

She
made no answer but relaxed in the circle of his arms, her head against his
chest, as his hands smoothed the tumbled hair back from her hot face and
pressed against the nape of her neck. What wonderful hands he has, she thought
drowsily, so strong and yet so gentle, hands that knew precisely how to soothe.
She slid her arms around his waist and sighed, rubbing her cheek against the
rough wool of his jerkin, inhaling the mingled odors of woodsmoke and heather
and clean male sweat.

"Better?"
he asked at last and she nodded, raising her head to look into his face.

"This
looks like it hurts," she said, lightly touching the cut above his eye.

"No,"
he said. "Later, maybe, but not now."

She
watched in rapt fascination as he leaned forward, her arms sliding up his chest
and round his neck without conscious thought or plan.

He
always tastes of honey, she thought dizzily. His tongue touched her lips and
they parted in an unconscious invitation that he accepted instantly, crashing
her against him while he explored her mouth with a thoroughness that left her
breathless. She clung to him, certain she would fall if not for his supporting
arms.

"Uncle
Jemmy, ye must come with me to your father," Malcolm yelled, bursting upon
them.

"Later,"
Jemmy answered. "Tell him—"

"Nay,
Jemmy, now," he insisted. Alyson saw Malcolm's bright blue eyes were
glittering with tears above his filthy, blood-smeared face. "He's taken
bad—verra bad—and he's askin' for ye—Lady Emma says ye must come at once—"

"I'm
sorry," Jemmy said to Alyson. "I must go to him."

"Of
course you must. Send for me if I can help," Alyson called after them and
Jemmy acknowledged her offer with a wave as he hurried off.

The
fight was finished, the men returning to the campsite with many groans and curses
to be tended by their women. Alyson returned to her cottage, smiling a little
at the inconstancy of men, who could roar like lions one moment and be reduced
to helpless children at the next. But when she remembered the cause of the
fight her smile faded, and when she thought more seriously on the afternoon's
events, her face grew grave.

She
said a prayer for the Laird, hoping that his indisposition would pass off
quickly. But even if it did, she knew the signs too well to hope that he would
ever be restored to health. His old heart was failing, and there was nothing to
be done about it, though with proper care and peace he might still have years
to live. Where he was to get those things Alyson did not know, for if he
survived this time there would be worse to follow.

When
darkness came she shut the door and turned back the coverlet on her pallet.
Finally, after only the briefest hesitation, she shot the heavy bolt and drew
the shutter.

In
a small, snug chamber in the McLaran keep, the Laird of Kirallen lay motionless
upon the bed. Jemmy sat beside him, alone now that Emma had gone to tend to her
own husband.

"He'll
be all right—this time," Emma had said, but Jemmy hadn't known whether or
not to believe her. By the light of the single candle, his father looked so
gaunt, his skin so pale, his hands so lifeless as they lay folded upon his
breast.

When
his eyelids fluttered open, Jemmy breathed a sigh of relief. No matter how his
father might anger him, God knew he had never wished him dead.

The
Laird's unfocused gaze wandered about the bedchamber, then fastened on Jemmy's
face.

"I've
been lying here thinking of Stephen," he said weakly.

"Stephen?"
Jemmy repeated blankly.

"Aye.
Such a terrible thing that happened to him. I blamed myself."

"But
it wasn't your fault—"

"I
never liked him," the Laird whispered, his head moving restlessly upon the
pillow. "When he was born there was such a fuss about it and my
parents—they favored him. Always."

"Don't
think about it now. It was all so long ago," Jemmy said, slipping an arm
beneath his father's head and holding the cup Emma had left to his lips.

The
laird drank, then fell back with a small sigh.

"When
I was younger I used to dream of going off and seeing other places—ye dinna
know that, did ye? Oh, aye, I had my dreams, but I always knew they'd come to
nothing. I was the heir. Had to bide at home."

"Aye,
Father," Jemmy murmured, trying to soothe him back to sleep. But Kirallen
kept talking as if he hadn't heard.

"I
was married at seventeen—not to your mother, but my first wife, Machara, that
was. She was a good woman, I suppose, but hardly a young man's dream. She was
older than I, not much to look at, and so grim! Not that I could blame her for
that, poor lady. She bore me four children and not one of them lived. God knows
what she thought of me—I never did. I was always plain, ye ken, and never had
much to say to the lasses. Never had a woman but Machara and she—well, she bore
it bravely," he added with a wry twist to his lips.

"And
there was Stephen, such a bonny lad, even then the women used to make a fuss
over him... he was always talking of all the places he meant to see, the
adventures he would have... He would have done it, too. All the things I wanted
came so easy to him.

"Then
Machara—God rest her—died, and I wed your mother." Kirallen's eyes lit
with the memory. "She was so beautiful—can ye remember how beautiful she
was?"

"Aye,"
Jemmy answered softly. "I remember."

"She
was half my age, ye ken, and always so kind, so merry. I was—struck dumb by
her. She gave me Ian, and then you, and it was as though all those years when I
was so unhappy dinna matter anymore. Ye canna imagine how happy she made
me."

"Oh,
I think I can," Jemmy said.

"But
sometimes—not often, but sometimes—I would see her laughing with Stephen. He
was just a bairn when we wed, but as he grew... all the lasses used to sit up
sharp when he walked into the room."

"Aye,
they did," Jemmy said, smiling a little.

"And
I would remember how much older I was and try to make allowances—but I dinna like
him. I tried to; he was my brother, but... He made mock of me and all I had
been taught to honor."

Kirallen's
eyes fell shut and Jemmy began to think he'd gone to sleep. But when they
opened again, they were clear and sharp.

"Ye
were always like him."

"I—I
knew I favored him."

"When
he was dead—and oh, I was sorry for that, the way he went. I wouldna have
wished that on anyone, let alone my brother. And your mother went just after
him. I'd lie awake at night, wondering what I had done wrong, if I'd somehow
made it happen. Mad thoughts, night crows in the darkness. Then I'd wake the
next morning and push it all aside. But then ye grew and—well, daft, ye might
think, but there were times I'd look at ye and it could have been Stephen all
over again, defying me, questioning all I held to be the truth."

"I
understand," Jemmy said, covering his father's hand with his.

"How
could ye know how it feels to look at your own son and see a stranger? Or no,
not a stranger, worse than that, a—a—"

"A
ghost," Jemmy said quietly.

"Aye,"
Kirallen whispered, his hand gripping Jemmy's. "Not your fault. I see that
now. Ian was more like me, ye ken, saw things the way I did, but he had your
mother's spirit—and her looks. He made everything come right, can ye see that?
All the choices I had made, they seemed the right ones... while Ian was
alive."

"I'm
so sorry," Jemmy said helplessly.

The
door opened quietly and Alistair looked in.

"You're
awake," Alistair said. "Thank God. They were saying—I thought that
ye—"

He
fell to his knees beside the bed and bent his head.

"I'm
not about to die," Kirallen said, reaching out his hand to stroke
Alistair's white-gold head. "Whisht, lad, 'tis all right, I'm fine now.
Dinna greet."

Jemmy
began to rise, but his father gripped his hand hard.

"Don't
leave, Jemmy. I want ye both with me."

Alistair
raised his head. His eyes were still wet, rimmed with red as they met Jemmy's
across the bed.

"We'll
stay, Father," Jemmy said, and Alistair nodded. "Go to sleep
now."

It
was a somber sky that greeted Alyson when she
stepped outside her
cottage in answer to Jemmy's knock. He looked weary and disheveled, but he
smiled when he saw her.

"Forgive
me for last night," he said. "My father kept me by his side."